


Deep Waters

by miss_grey



Series: What We Do In The Dark [58]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Bullying, Character Study, Dead animals, Family Feels, Gen, Ghosts, Growing Up, That's right, Witchcraft, childhood is hard, ghost renee, graphic depictions of injury illness and death, healer gene, teenage angst, teenage gene, witch gene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25454308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: Before he grew into the strongest witch this side of the Mississippi, Gene Roe was just a strange little boy with a lot of potential.  This is the story of how, between running around barefoot in the bayou and learning life’s toughest lessons, the love of three women, his mother, grandmother and the mysterious spirit Renee Lemaire, helped shape him into the man he would become.
Relationships: Eugene Roe/OFC, Renee LeMaire & Eugene Roe
Series: What We Do In The Dark [58]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1366063
Comments: 19
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lysel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysel/gifts).



> I've gotten a lot of questions from readers of this series, wanting to know more about Gene and how he became who he is. Here are your answers.
> 
> Please read the tags. Parts of this will be graphic and perhaps difficult to read.

** 3 years old **

Eugene clutched tightly to his grandmother’s hand, his footing still awkward on the uneven soil of the thin path that wound through the dense tangle of trees and roots. Around them, the bayou hummed. Mosquitos buzzed, birds called, and in the deep, dark waters, all sorts of life swam and slithered and crawled. The air was pungent—a potpourri of life and death, growth and decay, distilled in the soil, the water. “White flowers, mon chéri, keep your eyes open.”

The child scanned the soggy, spongy ground, dark eyes wide in the shade of the overhanging branches. There were so many things—algae and mushrooms, flowers and brush and the rotted wood of fallen trees. He knew the white flowers, though. They looked for them often, when she took him by the hand and pulled him beyond the clear sight of the house. 

Her hand was warm, dry, and strong in his and yet still, he stumbled, feet stopping before he’d had a chance to say so, and she attempted to tug him along. “Mémé,” he said, pulling his hand free so that he could clamber over toward the base of a tree. “What’s that?” he asked, sinking down into the dirt, the nearly black earth smudging up the denim knees of his jeans. 

A bird lay, still, feathers splayed wide in a dark blue fan, smeared dark with streaks of blood. Its eyes were gone and ants and other insects had already begun their work, but still Eugene’s tiny, pale hands reached forward and scooped the thing up. 

“No, Eugene,” his grandmother admonished as she caught up to him and saw what he held, “put it down, love. It’s dead. Gone, you see.” 

“Gone?” He asked, confused. Then, with the first hint of tears, “Dead?” He knew the word, but not what it meant, not really, beyond the idea of people not being around anymore. He pulled the bird closer to his body and his grandmother gasped, reaching for him. “We can fix it,” he said, looking up at her with his big, dark eyes. “Make it better.”

“No, chéri. We can’t help it now. It’s too late.”

“No,” Eugene sniffled, and he could feel the ants on his hands now, crawling up his skin. He felt a tingle in his fingers, under his skin. A sense of _urgency,_ like he was supposed to _do_ something, or else it’d be too late. He clutched the creature to him tightly, bowed his head, closed his eyes tight, and _wished_ the bird would move, would fly, would shake the ants off again. He wished it so hard, with everything he had, but suddenly his head felt dizzy, fuzzy, and then his grandmother was pulling him up and back, and the bird was falling back to the earth through his numb fingers. 

“Eugene!” She gasped, picking him up and inspecting his hands where the ants had bitten him. “Come, let’s get you home and cleaned up.” She sounded afraid—more afraid than Eugene could understand. After all, it was just some ants. He’d been bitten before. “Let’s go.” She pulled him tightly to herself and glanced around her at the swamp, which had seemingly gone quiet for an extended moment. 

Eugene rubbed at his eyes with the backs of his tender hands. “Mémé, I’m tired,” he sighed, resting his head on her sturdy shoulder. A couple heartbeats later, he’d fallen asleep. 

Holding the little boy close, Eugene’s grandmother cast another long, searching glance around them, sensing _something,_ but seeing nothing. Clutching her grandson, the most precious thing, she retreated quickly down the thin, but well-trodden path, leaving behind the ever-seething waters and tangled roots of the swamp.

* * *

Power pulsed in the air, in the earth, in the water. It moved in ever-widening concentric rings, deeper and _deeper,_ past the bird, which indeed _could not_ be saved, _beyond,_ into things that still could. 

In the strange, twilit place between living and dead, Renee felt a caress. Energy sank into her soul and filled her, revived her, made her _aware._

Time…space…it moved around her, and then she was _there._ Toes wiggled in ankle-deep mud, the hem of her blue skirt and white apron soaked and brown. She lifted her hands and turned them in front of her face. Not solid, but not entirely see-through. _Presence._ She had a _presence_ again. And within her, deep in whatever had held on during her time _away,_ she felt a prod, a twining, a gentle _tug._ She turned west, following it, her bare feet seeping deep into mud that did not squelch, pushing through tangled, clawing branches that did not touch her. 

She reached a clearing just as an older woman, clutching a sleeping child, climbed a set of stairs and moved beyond her sight into a humble house. Renee felt the tug again, and it took her a long moment to realize what it was. She hadn’t felt it for so long.

 _Life_ , the pulse murmured. _Life._

She gazed back down at her pale, translucent hands, which nearly caught the light of a fading, watery sun. “Yes,” she murmured, shocked at the sound of her own voice, “life. A very precious one.”


	2. Chapter 2

3 Years Old

The boy was a beacon, a lone lighthouse guiding all wanderers from a dark, lonely, thrashing sea. Creatures roamed near, wanting a taste of the latent, raw power that sometimes poured forth from the child. The spirits whispered, pressing, restless, eager to learn more of this soul. 

Because the others watched, so did Renee.

The boy lived in a small but comfortable looking home with two women, presumably his mother and grandmother. Renee recognized them for what they were—it was easy with the constant trickle of petitioners who made their way into their midst, bearing wounds and scars and illness. Wards were etched into the earth, glimmering threads that surrounded and embraced the home, keeping all but human, living souls from the land. Often, Renee would raise her hand to feel the magic, testing, as others did. Sometimes, at night, the press of souls and searching, fierce eyes, weighed heavy on the wards. They were good, but, Renee feared, not good enough.

She could still remember the words, remember the steps. She saw herself, walking barefoot through the tangle of mud and roots, pressing anchors into trees, whispering her will. She could remember—in the spirit world, often _was_ lived in the same place as _is_ and _will be._ Renee had, she did, she would. The patterns repeated, over and over, and yet, the will was not enough, the memory and the motion was not enough. Though she now _existed_ again, she could not _influence._ And so, instead, she did what she could. She watched.


	3. Chapter 3

4 Years Old

Gene peeked over the counter at his mother’s side, fingers gripping the edge, dusted in sugar, as he balanced on the tips of his toes. He’d woken to the smell of frying pastry and sticky sweet sugar, his belly rumbling. Before him on the counter sat a plate already piled high with beignets, cooled and sugared while his mama made another batch. “Mmmmm,” he hummed, licking his lips.

His mama laughed at him and set her spoon down to pluck a beignet from the pile. “Here you go,” she said, giving it to him. “Now you run along outside to play until I’m finished.”

“Thank you, mama,” he chirped, clutching his treat happily. He trotted out the door and found a nice, comfortable seat on the porch steps. The first bite of his beignet was bliss. It was still warm enough to satisfy, but cool enough that the sugar remained powdered, though sticky. He licked at one of his fingers and hummed to himself. After a second bite, he decided to wander around the yard while he waited for his mama to finish. Not far from the steps, he found a snake trail pressed into the dirt and, curious as always, decided to follow its track across the yard. 

He was so focused on the trail that he didn’t bother to glance up until he reached the clearing’s edge, but then he stopped, remembering he wasn’t supposed to go in there without his mama or mémé. He took a step back, but stopped, cocking his head, as a slight movement caught his attention.

A young woman stood just beyond the first row of trees, looking in his direction. Gene hesitated for just a second before raising his empty hand and waving at her. The woman startled and glanced around herself before focusing on him once more and waving back tentatively. She took a step toward him, coming out of the shadows so that he could see her better. Gene, cautious but curious, also moved forward. He waved again and said “Hi, I’m,” intending to introduce himself properly, but the strange woman cut him off.

“A clever little boy, I’m sure,” she said abruptly, ending his attempt. At the edge of the clearing, she crouched down to his level and smiled at him. “What have you got there?”

Gene glanced down at the remaining half of the beignet, clutched in his sticky, sugary fingers. “A beignet mama made. Want some?” He held the treat out to her in offering.

Her smile quirked up on one side and she shook her head, a tendril of blonde hair sweeping against her cheek. “No, but thank you. It looks delicious.”

“Mmmhmmm.” Gene nodded, then took another bite. Around the food, he asked “Are you here to see mémé?”

The woman shook her head. “No, not today. I was just passing through.”

Gene nodded. “Okay. But be careful in there. There’s snakes and gators.”

She nodded solemnly. “Oh, I know. But I’ll be careful, I promise.” She cocked her head at him. “You take care as well, yes? Mind your mother and grandmother.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Gene nodded.

“Good.” The woman stood again. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You, too.” Gene waved one last time as the woman took a step back, then another, before she turned and walked away back into the trees. Gene stared after her for a long moment, contemplating, before he was jerked out of his reverie by the sound of his mama calling him back inside for more delicious breakfast.

* * *

At church, Gene sat between his mother and grandmother and did his best not to wiggle around too much. It was impolite to talk while Father Michael was speaking, so Gene stayed quiet even though he was hungry and wanted to know if church was almost over. After, they always had a nice big meal and the house had smelled good before they’d left. Almost as if sensing his impending fidget, his mama turned to glance down at him, quirking a dark red brow. She smiled, but then nodded back toward the front of the church, where Father Michael was still talking. Getting the hint, Gene clutched his hands in his lap and did his best to pay attention.

After, they stood outside in the sunshine while a steady number of parishioners hovered to speak to his mémé, who spoke softly to them and handed them jars and packages. Some of them stopped to say hi to him and his mama once they’d gotten what they needed. A lot of them knew his mama because she worked at the store, but they patted him on the head and ruffled his hair (which he’d combed before church that morning,) reminding him to be a good boy and mind his mama. 

* * *

She looked different in the evening; with the sun slanted _just-so,_ Gene almost imagined he could see through her skirts to the foliage behind her. She stood in a different spot than before, but still just outside of the clearing. She was posed as though she’d been walking through once again, and had just happened to catch sight of him and been distracted. Gene waved, running up to her. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips and she immediately sank into a crouch, so that they could look eye to eye. “Hi again!” Gene said, pulling up right before he’d bump into her. 

“Hello.” The woman greeted.

“Going for another walk?” Gene asked, though he thought that it might be a little too late in the day for a long walk, as the sun was already beginning to dip behind the trees.

“Yes.”

Gene shaded his eyes and gazed up at the sky. “It’s almost dark.”

The woman nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

“Alright.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a little wave and then wandered into the trees, beyond where Gene could see. After she’d gone, he hurried up to the house, where he found his mémé waiting for him.

“What were you doing over there, mon chéri?”

Gene shrugged. “Just talking to the lady.”

His grandmother raised her eyes to the darkening trees. “What lady?”

Another shrug. “She goes for walks, sometimes.”

“Do you see her often?”

Gene nodded. 

“What is her name, sweetheart?”

Gene frowned. “She never told me.”

“And have you introduced yourself?”

Gene thought for a moment. “I said hi but I don’t think I told her my name.”

His grandmother nodded. “And is she nice to you, this lady?”

“Uh huh.”

“Alright. Well, if you should see her again, mon petit, make sure you ask her name. You may not speak to her again, otherwise.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

The next time he saw her, Gene approached with his hands folded in front of him, shy. He kicked a pebble along the way until he reached her. “Hi.” He said, glancing up at her from below the fringe of his dark hair. He raised his hand to brush it back. 

“Hello.” She smiled and crouched down to his level.

“What’s your name?” He asked. “My mémé says I shouldn’t talk to people ‘less I know their names.”

The woman nodded. “Your mémé sounds like a sensible woman.” She studied him for a moment, her blue eyes looking watery, washed out, in the sunlight. “My name is Renee.”

“Nice to meet you, Renee.” Gene said, holding out a hand for her to shake, like he’d seen at church. “I’m Eugene Roe.”

The smile on Renee’s face tightened for a moment, and Gene cocked his head, trying to figure out why she seemed upset. But then she reached for him, saying “It’s good to meet you properly.” Her hand passed through his, rather than gripping it like he expected. Gene frowned, brows pulled together, and he looked up at her. She had a look of horror on her face, and Gene didn’t understand that, either. But he didn’t want her to be upset, so he folded his hands in front of himself again.

“It’s okay.” He shrugged a shoulder.

* * *

A couple days later, while he helped his mama hang their laundry on the line, tugging each article of clothing from the pile and handing it up to her, he remembered something he’d been wondering about and asked “Mama… why can’t some people shake hands?”

“What do you mean, love?”

“Some people can’t shake hands.”

She shook her head. “Well, some people have had injuries which might make it hard for them to do that. They hurt themselves. Or they lose their hands. Like Mr. Reynard at church, who lost his during the war.”

Gene nodded. “What if their hand just goes through?”

She stopped what she was doing and looked down at him. “Like how?”

Gene thought for a minute, then held his hands up so his mama could see. He tried to imitate the movement, but it was hard with two solid hands. “Like this. But through.”

Her eyes had grown wide. “I see.” She said. She swallowed and reached down to grab his hand. “Let’s go ask mémé, okay?”

Gene smiled and clutched his mother’s hand. “Okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

5 years old

Gene stared down into the cup of steaming water, watching as the herbal sachet tinged the clear liquid with tendrils of golden color. The swirling steam smelled of earth and roots, the green of leaves and the slightly sweet, warm tang of ginger. Gene cast an eye to the clock, to make sure he timed it right. His mémé said it must steep for seven minutes. And so he listened to the tick-tock of the clock as time passed, and the murmur of voices at the kitchen table, where his mémé and mama sat with Mr. Boudreaux. The elderly man’s wrinkled hands were clasped in his grandmother’s, and she murmured her prayers softly under her breath, her fingers massaging gently. Gene had seen her do this many times, and always their guest left with a grateful smile and a sigh, feeling better.

After seven minutes, Gene plucked the hot sachet gently from the water with quick fingers and set it aside. Careful not to wobble and spill, he brought the tea over to the table and set it at Mr. Boudreaux’s elbow. “Here’s your tea, sir.”

His mémé paused in her praying and released the old man’s hands. One of them, wrinkled and gnarled by years of hard work and arthritis, reached out to ruffle Gene’s already messy hair. “Thanks, Doc. You a’ good boy.”

Gene smiled at the praise.

* * *

Gene clutched his backpack close on his lap. It was a cheap thing, bought by his mother at the store in town where she worked part-time, but it held the supplies Gene needed and it had dinosaurs on the front, so it was good. Her old red truck rumbled underneath them, making Gene’s legs go slightly numb, like always, but he hardly cared today. He was nervous like he’d never been before.

“It’ll be alright, sweetheart,” his mama said, reaching across the middle seat to pat him on the arm. “It’ll be fun, you’ll see. All those other kids to play with. And lots a’ things to learn.”

Gene nodded and swallowed thickly. Today was the first day of school. Besides church, Gene didn’t often get to see the other kids in the parish and he didn’t really have any friends. Well, besides Renee. What if they didn’t like him? He twisted his hands in the backpack’s straps. It was going to be strange being away from home all day. But he did like to learn and he was excited about that.

When they pulled up in front of the school, he watched, wide-eyed, as other kids and their parents streamed into the rooms. He clutched at his backpack harder and his mama turned her kind hazel eyes on him. “You ready to go meet your teacher?”

Gene nodded, even though he didn’t _feel_ ready. He clasped the latch and pushed the squeaky door open, hopping down and hitching his bag onto his back. A moment later, his mother was there, her soft, warm hand clasping his as she led him toward a bright blue door and a gaggle of other children. Just inside, they were greeted by a petite young woman with dark hair and blue eyes, who wore a modest dress and a smile. Her eyes landed on his mother for a moment, taking note, before they scanned down to Gene. She offered her hand. “Hello, I’m Mrs. Landry, your new teacher. What’s your name?”

His mama gave his hand a squeeze and Gene cleared his throat, looking up at this new person. “I’m Eugene Roe.” Another squeeze. “But I like bein’ called Gene.” Mrs. Landry’s larger hand was soft and warm, but also a bit damp with sweat.

“Nice to meet you, Gene. Why don’t you come in and your mama can help you find your seat?”

His mother stayed for another fifteen minutes, just long enough to make sure he’d found his place and his things were put where they were supposed to be, and then she left him with a smile and a quick kiss to his cheek. 

Gene’s spot was at a table with a bunch of other kids his age, some of whom he recognized from church, but most he didn’t. He wanted to make friends, but he wasn’t quite sure what to say. Gene was quiet by nature, and now, alone in a sea of strangers, he felt himself withdrawing even more. One boy did talk to him, though—Terry, who had yellow hair and a smudge of dirt on his chin—and told him that he really liked Gene’s dinosaur backpack. Gene felt a small smile curl his lips. That was the best part of the day.

* * *

Gene’s mother studied her son over her forkful of dinner and said “So, Gene. Have you seen your friend Renee lately?”

Gene shrugged, pushing around a pile of greens. He knew his mama was gonna make him eat them, but he’d put it off for as long as he could. “Uh huh.”

“Oh yeah? When?”

Another shrug. “Yesterday.”

His mother and grandmother exchanged a glance across the table. “Does she always look the same when you see her?”

Gene frowned, thinking for a minute. Then, “Yes.” He set his fork down to give his mama his full attention. “She wears a blue dress. And a white…uh….” He furrowed his brows, trying to summon the word.

“Apron?” His mémé offered.

He smiled at her gratefully. “Yeah. A white apron over it. And she wears a blue thing in her hair.”

“You know,” his mémé mused, “this Renee is an old spirit. She’s been around for a long time. I saw her myself, once or twice, when I was a little girl.”

Gene’s mama frowned. “You never mentioned that before.”

His mémé shrugged. “I was never sure it was the same spirit, before now.”

His mama cast a furtive look between Gene and his grandmother, as if wishing he wasn’t there for the rest of the conversation. “Well…do you know who she is? Where she came from?”

“Oh, no,” she said, “she’s much older than me. And it was never like…this.” She smiled softly at Gene and he picked up his fork, taking a bite of his greens. “I only ever saw her in flashes.”

Gene shifted in his chair and, sensing the emotional undercurrents at the table, placed a hand over his mama’s. “Renee’s a nice person, mama.”

His mother smiled tightly. “I’m sure she is.” She fiddled with her own dinner and Gene could feel her upset sloshing around the room like he’d had too much to drink. “What do the two of you talk about, anyway?”

Gene frowned, hating the feeling, and wanting to ease it. “Animals, mostly. And plants. She teaches me things just like mémé and Mrs. Landry.”

His mama opened her mouth, maybe to ask another question, maybe to protest, but before she could, Gene’s grandmother laid a comforting hand on her other side. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I promise.”

His mama’s shoulders drooped—not relaxed, just tired.

* * *

One Tuesday, after school had ended and before his mother returned from work, Gene sat on the porch with his grandmother, drinking sweet tea and helping her sort flowers. They’d been working for a while and his grandmother had been singing softly, the buzz of cicadas nearly drowning her out. Gene’s nimble fingers paused in their sorting. “Mémé,” he asked, voice plaintive, “am I a witch?” He chanced a glance up at his grandmother, his big dark eyes wide and nervous. “Some of the kids at school said I was.”

He sensed a flash of anger, followed by a gentle sorrow before she reached across to grab Gene’s hands in her own. She offered him an understanding smile. “No, mon chéri, you are _not_ a witch. You’re a healer. That’s a gift from God. Remember that.”

* * *

Out on the playground, Gene ran, laughing as he kicked the soccer ball away from Terry and dodged another boy. Of all the games they played at recess, this was his favorite one. He loved to run, he loved to be fast. 

Now, Gene kicked it once more, sending it flying across the grass. He grinned, staring after it, and when he moved to chase, he tripped over something in the grass and fell, scraping his knee on a stray rock. 

“Hey!” Terry called, “You okay?”

“I’m fine!” Gene shouted back. He crouched in the grass and pulled his knee close, inspecting it. The rock was a sharp one and it had scraped him pretty good. Blood welled on his skin, ruby red beads. Gene frowned at them for a moment before he wiped them away with the palm of his hand and, shrugging off the sting, got back up to play.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak French. Any errors belong to me and Google. I'm sorry in advance lol

6 years old

“My dad could beat up your dad!” Joey snarled, pushing Terry on the playground.

“Nuh-uh,” Terry retorted, “my dad builds houses! He could beat up your dad so you better leave me alone.”

“My dad could beat up both of your dads!” Keith laughed. “He’s a soldier.”

Gene listened to the argument, his mouth unsure whether it wanted to tug into a smile or a frown. Suddenly, Terry elbowed him. “What about your dad, Gene?”

Gene’s mouth decided on a frown. “I don’t know.”

At home that evening, as Gene stood on a stool and stirred the pot of soup for his mother who was busy making biscuits, he summoned his courage to ask the question that had been bugging him all day. “Mama?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do I have a dad?”

His mother’s movements jerked to a sudden halt and the air grew tense. Gene couldn’t see her face, but he knew she must be upset. He could _feel_ it. Everywhere. “Why are you asking that?”

Gene shrugged, suddenly feeling wrong-footed, like he should’ve kept it to himself. “Some of the kids were talking about their dads today.”

When his mother finally turned to look at him, her hazel eyes were flat. “No, sweetie. You don’t have a dad.”

“Oh,” Gene said, suddenly feeling sad over the loss of a person who had never existed. “Okay.”

* * *

“Come sit down here with me, mon chéri,” his grandmother indicated, signaling for Gene to join her on the couch. “I’m going to teach you something.”

Gene plopped down next to her, nearly upsetting the ball of yarn that perched at her side. He grinned. “Sorry.”

She scoffed and nudged him, pulling him closer to her side. “Watch.” She took the yarn and started looping it over the fingers on her left hand. One loop. Two. Bottom one over, around. Again and again. Gene watched, amazed as her fingers moved swiftly and surely. After a few minutes, his grandmother stopped and turned her hand so that Gene could see the pattern of loops she’d produced on the other side.

“Whoa!” He gasped, amazed, his fingers reaching out to touch the soft fabric. “What’re you making, mémé?”

“I’m going to make a shawl, for old Mrs. Landry.”

“My teacher?”

“No, dear. Her mother. She gets cold easily and feels sickly during the winter months.”

“That’s nice of you, méme.”

His grandmother nodded. “Would you like to learn, my sweet?”

“Yeah!” Gene nodded eagerly and his grandmother chuckled. She pulled her fingers from the weaving and then tugged the end of the yarn. Gene watched the whole thing unravel.

“Give me your left hand, chéri.” Gene scooted even closer and held his left hand out to his grandmother, who proceeded to loop the yarn around his fingers. “Now, first, you must do this three times so that you can see two loops, here. You see?” Gene nodded. “Good.”

As they sat together, Gene’s grandmother taught him how to hand weave. He liked it. It was easy to do—only a few steps—but it was also intricate. You couldn’t mess up, or you’d have to pull the yarn out and start again. As she reviewed the steps with him, she pulled back and allowed him to try for himself. “It’s fun,” he decided.

His grandmother nodded. “Yes, and it’s good for a lot of other things, too. It can help you relax,” she started, as she looped yarn around her own fingers. “Or it can help you concentrate, if that’s what you need. You can make things. And here’s another trick, love. Are you paying attention?”

“Yes, mémé.”

“You can weave good thoughts in, while you work.”

“Really?” The idea delighted Gene.

“Oh, yes.” His grandmother nodded. “I want to make a shawl for Mrs. Landry that will help to keep her warm and healthy this winter. So while I weave, I pray.”

“That’s it?”

“Oh, it’s very powerful. Haven’t you paid attention in church? Prayer is a powerful thing. You’ve seen me helping some of the parish folk. I pray to God to help them. This is the same.”

Gene nodded, listening intently, while his fingers continued to weave. “How do you do it?”

“If you want to put the good thoughts into your work, you can do it different ways. You can ask God for something specific like ‘Please Lord, help to keep Mrs. Landry warm this winter,’ or you can just think about how you want it to help while you recite one of your favorite prayers. Understand?”

“Yes.” Gene nodded, smiling in awe of this new knowledge. They worked together quietly for a few moments, until Gene glanced up at his grandmother and asked “Mémé, what is _your_ favorite prayer?”

She smiled down at Gene and paused in her weaving for a moment. She plucked at the chain she wore around her neck and fished out an image of a saint. “This is St. Francis,” she murmured, “he cared for all living things and he has reminded me, through my years, that healing is an act of humility. Do you understand that word?”

Gene shook his head.

“You must be humble. You must _want_ to help other people. It doesn’t just happen. It requires you to ask for something greater than yourself, from the greatest power there is.” She smiled down at him. “Here is his prayer.” She began reciting it, one line after another in French, while Gene repeated each line after her. He said the words in French, and his mind heard their echo in his other language.

_“Seigneur, faites de moi un instrument de votre paix.”_

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

* * *

Darkness swallowed the bayou slowly in the summer, dissolving the color at the edge of the sky, until suddenly the oranges and pinks transitioned to purples and teals, and finally dark blues and blacks. 

Gene was outside playing still, waiting for his mother to come home, when the darkness prepared to swallow the last light of the day—the sky above was a deep bluish purple that tinted everything the same twilit color. The swamp trees became reaching, tangled black shadows. The soil was grayish blue, fading to black as well, the further away from home it stretched. Outside the safe circle of yellowed glow from the house’s windows, Gene heard the night creatures wake up. They crawled and slithered around, crunching leaves and twigs under their bodies, their glowing eyes occasionally blinking out at him from the tree line. 

And then there were fireflies. They were some of Gene’s favorite. Blinking in and out of existence, sparkling in the grass and bushes, creating brilliant trails of light around the house. Most nights, Gene chased them around, doing his best to capture one in his hands, just so that he could experience peeking into the space and seeing the creature glow, then dim, then glow again before he released it once more. They were his favorite.

Tonight, Gene was busy chasing them when another light, a bigger light, caught his attention from within the trees. He stopped running and turned to look at it. It was large, like a lantern, and it danced among the trees, weaving in and out of the shadows. He studied it, trying to figure out what it could be, when suddenly, from within the darkness, his mother’s voice called him. “ _Gene,_ ” playful, summoning. Again, “ _Gene.”_ Gene grinned. His mama must be playing some game with him.

“Comin’, mama!” Gene called, and he hurried into the tangle of trees and vines, following after his mother.

She was fast, she and her mysterious light staying just out of his reach as he chased after them. “Slow down, mama! You’re goin’ too fast!”

“Gotta catch me!” She called, giggling. 

Gene pushed his legs faster and faster, but it was hard in the swamp, with the vines and roots tripping him up and the last light of day vanishing to black as he ran. “Mama?!” Gene called, suddenly pausing, when he realized that he couldn’t see her light anymore. “Mama?! Where are you? I can’t see you!” Heaving to catch his breath, Gene pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes and glanced around, finally feeling nervous, then a bit afraid. “I can’t see anything.” He realized. He took a step back and tripped over a root, falling to his butt in the loam. High up above, peeking through the tree branches, he could see the first sparkle of stars and they cast the only light. Somewhere to the right, beyond his sight, something crawled through the mud—a low, slippery drag—and splashed water. Gene’s heart leapt and he pushed himself to his feet, clenching his hands together in front of himself. _Gator._ “Mama!” Gene cried. “Come back! Don’t leave me!” Nothing. To the right, the dragging sound grew closer. Eyes wide in the darkness, Gene stumbled to the left, _away_ from whatever it was. The gloom of the swamp meant shadows and darker shadows. There were no fireflies here. No lamps. Nothing. Nothing at all. Just….

“Eugene. Come here.” Suddenly, a dim glow appeared in the trees in front of him and Renee was there, kneeling in the mud. “What’s happened, my sweet?”

Gene stumbled to her, his hands reaching for her but grasping nothing but cold air. “My mama,” he gasped, throat tight with a sob he was trying to hold in, “she…she left me.” Now the sob did come, and tears with it. “She brought me out here and she left me.”

Renee frowned, her sooty blonde brows drawing together. She cast her gaze beyond him, into the swamp, as if searching for his mother herself. “No,” she said, a moment later, her eyes fixed upon Gene once more. “No, sweet boy, your mama did not leave you. It was not your mother who brought you here.”

“What?” Gene wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, battling the tears. “But I heard her calling me.”

“Come with me.” Renee stood, and though they knew he couldn’t take it, she held her hand out to him. 

“Okay.” He followed her as she began moving back through the darkness, her soft glow guiding his feet so that he could avoid tripping again. Beyond her light, he could still hear the creatures moving, scraping, hissing, growling, but he wasn’t as afraid anymore. He wasn’t alone.

“Do you know the creature they call a Will o’ Wisp, mon petit?”

“No.” Gene sniffled, and for a moment, he wished, more than anything, that he could hold Renee’s hand. As his swung back and forth, he suddenly felt it brush against the fabric of her skirt and he stopped, staring at it. She noticed too, but instead of saying anything, she simply offered her hand once more, and so Gene took it. At first, it didn’t feel like anything at all, barely there, but once his hand slipped into hers, her whole being pulsed with light and her hand grew a bit more solid. She tugged him along.

“A Will o’ Wisp is a mischievous spirit that dwells in swamps and bogs. It appears as a large ball of light. It plays tricks on people and guides them into the dark, getting them lost, and then it abandons them there.”

“No,” Gene said, shaking his head. “My mama called me. I heard her.”

“Yes,” Renee agreed, squeezing his hand slightly. “A Will o’ Wisp can imitate the voices of people we love, in order to convince us to follow it. It was not your beloved mama who brought you here, my sweet. It was a spirit, playing a trick.” Gene’s lip wobbled as he considered what had happened to him, what had _almost_ happened. How dangerous it was out here. “You must never go wandering alone at night, Eugene. And you must never listen to a Will o’ Wisp, even if it sounds like someone you love. Promise me.”

Gene nodded, hand squeezing hers. “I promise, Renee.”

As they drew closer to the house, they heard his mother and grandmother calling for him, voices loud and frantic. Gene felt a chill go down his spine, wondering if this was simply another trick, or whether these people were really his family. As if sensing his uncertainty, Renee glanced down at him and said “They are real, mon chéri. Your family love you.”

His mother spotted them first. She gasped, hand flying to her chest, as she took in the two of them—Renee glowing ethereally, and Gene, clasping her hand. “Gene!” She shouted, running toward them. Without waiting for them to fully emerge from the trees, she dashed in, grabbing him up in her arms and pulling his hand from Renee’s. Immediately, she dimmed. Holding Gene in her arms, she turned to snarl at Renee. “Who are you? What did you do with my boy?”

Renee startled at being addressed, but she stood straight and folded her hands in front of herself. “My name is Renee.” Hearing them together for the first time, Gene realized how different Renee sounded to the rest of them. “A Will o’ Wisp played a nasty trick on Eugene.”

Gene nodded in his mother’s arms. “Renee saved me, mama. She brought me back.”

Gene’s mother looked down at him, her eyes watering as she brushed a hand over his cheek. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “Just scared.”

His mother looked up to Renee once more. “Then thank you.”

“Of course. It was my pleasure.” She smiled at his mother for a moment, then turned her eyes toward Gene’s grandmother. “You should teach him what lives in this swamp. He’s old enough now to wander. He should know how to take care of himself.” With that, she focused her dim, watery blue eyes on Gene once more. “Take care, mon chéri. I will be seeing you.”

Gene nodded solemnly. “Bye, Renee.” A moment later, she disappeared.

* * *

Thursday was library day—Gene’s favorite of the whole week. He stood in line, single-file, and the class followed the teacher down the hallway, outside through the courtyard, and into the tall building with stained glass windows that held the library. Once inside, they were given permission to turn in their old books and then go find a few more. 

Gene hurriedly pushed his old books onto the librarian’s turn-in counter then walked (very quickly since you weren’t allowed to run in a library) to the exact place in the shelves where he’d left off last time. Gene stood under the hanging sign that read, in big, blocky letters: NONFICTION. In his library, they used what the librarian called the “Dewey decimal system.” Which meant if Gene wanted to find books on animals, the best place for him to look was at the shelf that was labeled “570—Biology.” Last month, he’d read through “560—Fossils” and he’d learned the names of really cool dinosaurs. The books he’d returned today, though, belonged to 570. He’d had out books about cats and dogs (partly because he was curious, but partly because he was still hoping to convince his mama that they should get one.) Now, though, he was excited to move onto something more exotic, and he’d had his eye on it since last week. 

He almost cheered out loud when he stood on his tiptoes and spotted the title about bats. He pulled it from the shelf, along with one about bugs, then hauled his finds to his favorite spot in the library—the reading tree. The reading tree had been a local construction project. It consisted of a central ladder and several raised reading platforms that sat a few feet from the ground, covered in pillows, where the kids could climb and read while they waited for the rest of their class. Gene’s spot at the top of the reading tree was still empty, so he hurried to grab it before another student did. Sitting among the teal and crimson colored pillows, Gene smiled happily, utterly at peace, as he opened his book on bats.

* * *

It was a hot, dusty afternoon in the bayou—the wind had picked up and it hadn’t rained in weeks. Gene had changed his clothes after coming home from school, eaten a quick snack, and then hurried outside to play before his grandmother assigned him chores. He was just taking a quick walk down their drive when a small, feeble movement caught his attention. He jogged up the drive until he could see: a frog, leg broken and bleeding, struggled to pull itself across the dusty trail. Gene frowned and knelt next to the creature. Afraid, it jerked away from him and another gush of blood pulsed from its leg. “Hold on,” Gene murmured. “I’ll help you.” He reached for the frightened frog and scooped it into his hands, holding it gently against his chest.

Immediately, he felt it: rapid heart-beat, pained, panicked breaths. _Hurt, fear. Hurt, fear. HURT, FEAR, **HURT, FEAR.**_ “No,” Gene gasped, hunching over the animal protectively. “It’s okay.” He could feel the wetness of blood on his hand, and he knew, somehow, that was the biggest concern. “I’ll help you.” 

He only meant to comfort it, to calm it down so he could take it to his grandmother, but he could _feel_ how badly the frog’s leg hurt, how scared it was, and in that moment, Gene was willing to do anything to make it better. Bowing his body protectively over the frog, Gene prayed that the frog would live, prayed and wished and _wanted_ the frog to live. Suddenly, Gene felt _strange,_ like someone had reached inside of him and _pulled him out_. His hands tingled where they clutched the frog, and Gene gasped, his own heart pounding. “You’re okay,” he gasped, still struggling to calm the creature cupped in his hands but now also himself, “you’re okay.” It became a chant, over and over, _you’re okay._ Confused by the strange way he felt, Gene rose to his feet, but his head swam. He managed to stumble a couple steps before the world spun and he toppled over, eyes falling shut as his body went limp. 

Unconscious, sprawled in the dirt drive, his fingers unfurled and the frog hopped away, perfectly fine.

He woke to the sound of praying. His mother and grandmother knelt next to the side of his bed where he lay, uncovered. Tears still trickled down his mother’s cheeks. It was dark outside. “Mama?” Gene croaked, throat dry. “What happened?”

“Oh, thank God!” She gasped, reaching out. She pulled him to her chest and she hugged him tightly. “How do you feel?”

Gene cleared his throat. “Thirsty.” She pressed a glass of water into his hand and he drained it. “’M tired.” He added, yawning. 

“What happened?”

His mind was still fuzzy from sleep, but suddenly Gene remembered. “What happened to the frog? Is it okay?”

His mother sat back, frowning at him. “What frog? Sweetheart, are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

Gene shook his head. “No. The frog’s leg was broken. I was trying to help it.”

Suddenly, his mother looked at his grandmother and she shook her head, lips pressed together. His grandmother said, “There was no frog. It must have hopped away.”

“So it’s okay?” Gene pressed.

His grandmother nodded. “I’m sure it is, chéri. Come now, lay down again. I’m sure you’re still tired.” Gene lay back down against his pillows and his grandmother smoothed his dark hair way from his brow. She smiled softly at him and his mother smiled too, but tightly. “You did a good thing, helping that creature, Eugene. But now you should sleep.” She laid her soft, wrinkled hand against his cheek. “And when you wake, we must talk, you and I.”

Gene took comfort in her touch, and in the presence of his family, and he didn’t fight it when sleep came for him once again.


	6. Chapter 6

7 years old

Gene flinched when he stalked up the driveway and saw his mama’s car sitting in front of the house—he’d forgotten today was her day off from the store. He contemplated not going into the house, not facing her, but he knew that he’d have to, eventually. He kicked at a rock, his shoulders hunched, fists still curled at his sides.

He entered the house, shamefaced but angry, and barely looked at his mother as he made his way to his bedroom, attempting to bypass her before she noticed him. _No such luck._

“Eugene?” She called, rising from the sofa as he darted through the door. “How was school today?”

Gene had a moment to wonder whether the principal had called her, or whether someone else had, but he shrugged that off. No—no one had tattled. He was sure of that, or else he would’ve been hauled into the office for sure. “Don’t wanna talk about it.” Gene mumbled, still not looking at her.

“Sweetheart, come here.” He could see her standing at the edge of his vision and it was hard for Gene to hold back the frustrated tears that he didn’t want her to see.

“Can I just go to my room?”

“No.” His mother insisted. “Come here.”

Keeping his head up, Gene turned back toward his mother and took the few stiff steps required to reach her. He could feel the awful betrayal of wetness in his eyes and forced them to keep behind his lashes. He clenched his fists so hard he was shaking.

His mother stared down at him, studying him. “What’s wrong?”

Gene glanced away from her, unable to lie when she looked at him like that. “Nothin’.”

“Then why do you look like you’re about to shake apart?” She reached out, and with a gentle but insistent hand, she cupped his chin and forced him to look up at her again. “What happened?”

“Nothin’.” Gene insisted stubbornly. 

Gene knew she could see the lie, was probably figuring out exactly what he was hiding as she looked at him. Her hazel eyes scanned him, from his angry, defiant eyes and stubborn chin, down to his rigid shoulders and curled fists, to his feet, planted firmly, ready for another fight. “Eugene. Show me your hands.”

_Here it comes,_ Gene thought, as he finally, _finally,_ uncurled his fists and held his hands out to his mother. She brushed her gentle fingers over his bruised, tender knuckles, and he had to hold back a flinch. “Tell me what happened.” She ordered.

Gene clenched his jaw, holding back the words, the pain, and the shame of it all, but he knew it’d have to come out. “Got in a fight with Billy Hebert.” Gene admitted. “I punched him.”

His mother’s brows jumped and her lips narrowed. “Why did you hit him?”

The same wave of burning heat washed through him again: shame, rage, and shock. “He was makin’ fun of me.” Gene admitted unwillingly.

“Tell me.”

Gene shook his head. “No, mama. I don’t wanna say it.”

“Tell me.”

The words clogged up his throat and choked him. They hurt to think—he didn’t wanna say them. They were poison. “Called me a bastard,” Gene said, turning his face away from his mother’s. Her hands still held onto his. “Said my daddy didn’t want me. And he said you….” The words died in his mouth. They wouldn’t come. He didn’t quite know what it meant, but he knew it was bad.

“Tell me.”

Tears welled in Gene’s eyes and his whole body quivered. “He called you a whore.”

“Look at me.” His mother ordered. Gene glanced up at her through the sheen of unshed, stubborn tears. “You’re not a bastard and I’m not a whore. And you are loved and wanted. Those words—they don’t mean anythin’, and they can’t hurt you if you don’t let them.” She sighed. “This world…it can be cruel. But we can’t let it make us cruel, do you hear?” Her hands curled around his, holding them securely in her own and her voice changed, laced with…what was that? _Disappointment? Hope? Fear?_ “Eugene Roe,” she started, “these hands of yours were meant for healin’, not hurtin’. Now, you come with me.”

Gene sniffled, the words weighing heavy on him. “Where are we goin’?” He swiped a sleeve across his eyes as soon as she released him.

“To help that boy.”

* * *

It only took fifteen minutes, but it was the longest drive of his life as they made their way to Billy Hebert’s house. The truck was full of a strange mix of emotions—his and his mother’s—stubbornness, sadness, grief, anger, determination, and…and love. It was all almost too much to bear.

The Hebert’s house stood up on stilts and looked like some of the steps needed repair. Gene reluctantly followed his mother out of the truck and up the porch to knock on the front door. Gene stood just slightly behind her, angry and ashamed to be here. 

When the door opened, a serious looking woman with blonde hair and blue eyes stood there, staring out at them through the screen. “What do you want?”

“My son told me that he hit your boy at school today. We’re here to fix that mistake.”

The woman (Billy’s mom), folded her arms across her chest and stood in the door, stubborn. A moment later, a man joined them. He towered over her and he glared out at them through the screen for a moment before his eyes softened. “Leonie,” he acknowledged, when he saw that it was Gene’s mother standing there.

“Joseph.” She nodded. “We’ve come to heal your boy. Can we come in?”

He laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder, solid, and then nodded, pulling her back from the door.

“Billy!” Joseph called, “You come on out here, now.”

Down the hall from the living room, they heard a door creak open and then the shuffle of feet. Billy trudged into the room, his blonde head hanging, avoiding all of their eyes. “Joe,” Billy’s mom started, but the man hushed her with a shake of his head.

“Billy. These folks are here to fix you up, you hear me? You let them. Now look up and let them get a look at you.”

Billy finally looked up at them and Gene could see that his left eye had swollen and blackened, bruised and painful looking. He couldn’t see out of it. A strange curl of _satisfaction, hurt, shame,_ twisted in his belly.

His mother’s hands were solid on his shoulders as she stood behind him and pushed him closer to his enemy. “I want you to look know, Eugene,” she murmured. “I want you to see the hurt that you caused.” Gene _did_ see it, saw the flinch in Billy’s face, the fear that he held himself with. Gene could practically feel the pain leaching out of him. For the first time today, he felt guilt. “Now we’re gonna pray to God to help us fix it.” His mother instructed.

Billy flinched and took a step back as Gene’s mama approached him and took hold of his face, but he relaxed once her gentle hands cupped his cheeks and her fingers smoothed over his swollen eye. Billy’s parents stood, tense and silent, just to the side. 

Gene had helped his mother and grandmother with healings like this before, so it was not a new thing to lay his hands upon her arm and close his eyes to follow her prayers once she began. It _was_ new, though, the complicated knot of emotions that tangled inside of him. Guilt over the hurt he’d caused and shame at his mother’s disappointment. Regret at having lost his temper and doing something so unlike himself. Anger and hurt at the boy who stood, trembling, under his mother’s healing hands. Sadness for himself and his mother, because people were cruel sometimes and didn’t seem to understand. But he also _wanted._ He wished he could take it back. He knew he couldn’t, but he could help his mama to do the next best thing, and fix what he’d broken. He murmured the words steadily and reached into that strange spot inside of him that seemed to writhe with energy, and he asked God to please help him to fix his mistake. Gene didn’t like that he’d been as cruel as Billy. Didn’t like seeing his mark on the other boy’s face. It made him feel sick inside, like he needed to vomit, and he wanted that feeling to go away.

It took a time, but eventually Gene’s mother drew her hands away from Billy’s face and said “There, now.” Gene’s hands dropped away from his mother and he finally allowed himself to look at the other boy again. Billy blinked his eyes open, able to now that the swelling and bruising had all but disappeared. Stunned, Billy raised a trembling hand to his eye and touched the tender skin there without flinching.

Gene’s mama looked up to Billy’s parents, then, and said “It won’t happen again.” They nodded, their own faces full of matching awe. “Come now, Eugene,” his mama instructed, tugging at his hand. “It’s time to head back home.”

In the truck, Gene sat with his sore hands folded together between his knees. He stared out at the road silently, thinking back over the things his hands had done that day. Five minutes into the drive, his mama said “We ain’t here to punish or to judge, sweetheart. All folks got their own burdens to bear, and you don’t know this boy’s burdens.” She sighed. “If he’s angry, if he’s mean…he’s probably hurtin’ somewhere that you can’t see. He needs to be _helped,_ Gene. Everyone does.” She turned to him briefly, and he saw the exhaustion in her hazel eyes. “I know that it’s hard sometimes, but those of us with a gift? We have a responsibility to use it right, my son. Promise me.”

Gene swallowed thickly and looked down at his hands. “I promise, mama.”

“Good.”

That was the last time that Gene ever lay his hands on a body to hurt them.


	7. Chapter 7

8 years old

His teacher was talking again, something about the multiplication tables that Gene was supposed to be memorizing, but he was only half paying attention. At the edge of his math sheet, he doodled a cartoon frog hopping from one corner to the other and he smiled contentedly.

_ Cute frog, but try to focus on your math.  _ An embarrassed blush rose to Gene’s cheeks as he read the teacher’s note. He’d gotten similar notes on his other assignments, always praising his artwork, and then telling him to stop. He couldn’t help it. He loved to draw and when the teacher started talking about things that were hard for Gene to care about, he turned his attention toward something more enjoyable. 

He sighed, shoving the paper in his backpack. His mama would probably scold him again and tell him to pay better attention once she saw the note.  _ Oh, well,  _ Gene thought, doodling at the corner of his new assignment,  _ gotta _ _ face the music. _

* * *

For his birthday, his mama gave him a sketch pad, saying “Your artwork is lovely, Gene. Now you can save your pictures here instead of drawing on your assignments.”

Gene grinned, so happy to start drawing in a real artist’s sketch pad. He wanted to draw the animals that he saw, and he wanted to draw his house and his mama and  mémé and Renee. “Thank you, mama,” he beamed. 

* * *

Gene swung his feet back and forth at the edge of the dock, humming softly to himself while he waited patiently for a fish to bite at the end of his line. “May I keep you company?” Renee asked, suddenly standing at his side.

Gene turned to look at his friend and smiled. “’Course.” He continued to swing his feet.

Renee settled on the dock next to him, her pale bare feet dipping into the water, the muddy hemline of her skirt just barely skimming the surface. “Have you caught anything yet?” She asked.

Gene shook his head. “Not yet, but it’s still early. My  mémé said she wanted some fish for dinner, so I’m gonna get her some.”

Renee smiled. “You’re a good boy.”

Gene huffed. “Sometimes.”

* * *

“Mama,” Gene asked as he and his mother sat together on the couch, the tv turned down low before them.

“Yes?”

“Who was my daddy?”

His mama turned to look down at him, her brows furrowed, eyes guarded. For a long time, she didn’t say anything, simply held his gaze in her own. The silence seemed to go on forever, long enough that Gene almost began to regret the question, but finally, she shook her head once and looked away, back toward the tv. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

* * *

It happened like this: dark, swirling clouds rolling in two days in advance, the pounding of rain that wouldn’t let up, winds that whipped against the house, howling fiercely and bending the trees, the lights flickering on and off until the power finally gave and plunged the house into darkness, the battery-operated radio sitting on the kitchen table while Gene, his mama, and his  mémé sat listening to the news with drawn, worried faces. 

Hurricane.

It was the first that he could remember, really, beyond vague recollections of flooding and tense conversation. Now was different, though. Now, he sat at the table with his family, all of them clutching hands and praying, Gene’s gut tight with worry, his hands sweaty where they held the others. He tried to be brave, but still, as the wind shrieked outside their door, Gene couldn’t help the tremble that shook his frame. His lip wobbled and he whispered, between prayers, “I’m scared.”

His  mémé squeezed his hand comfortingly and murmured “It’s alright,  cherí , everything will be fine.” Her eyes met his  mama’s across the table and she added “So long as the levee holds, it’ll pass like it does every year.”

“Every year?” Gene whispered.

“Yes, my dear. Even God rages, sometimes.” Across the table, mama huffed and Gene’s grandmother squeezed his hand again. “The storms brew up in the Gulf and come inland sometimes. We get the worst of it here, in the bayou.”

“It’s scary.”

“It is. The wind and the rain can last for days. Sometimes it floods. Sometimes it destroys. Sometimes people get hurt. But it’s alright because after, the water recedes and people rebuild and we are here, to help heal. Everything will be okay, I promise.”

It was a bad storm, one they kept  callin ’ by name, but eventually the wind died down enough to leave the house and once it did, he and his family climbed up into his mama’s red pickup truck and drove to the church. When they got there, they found the parking lot crowded with other vehicles, men huddled in the front together, smoking and murmuring in hushed voices. 

Gene climbed out of the car behind his  mémé and followed her and his mother past the men and into the church where a lot of people sat, shivering and afraid in the pews, while others bustled around, handing out food and carrying bandages. Father Michael greeted them just inside the door and  mémé asked “Where are we needed?”

“Thank God you’re here,” the priest breathed, glancing around to the packed space. “Several of the parishioners have injuries. Susan Levitt’s probably the worst.”

“Alright.” Then, glancing down at him, she said “You go with your mama, help her to heal  these folk like we’ve practiced.” They split up then, Gene tagging after his mother as she made her way through the pews, looking for those in the worst shape. 

The day passed like that: mama laying her  hands on folk who needed help, Gene clutching at her arm and praying along with her to give her strength. In between, Gene helping to fetch food and water for all of the scared people who’d come to the church seeking refuge. 

It was a long day, so long, and by the end, Gene felt dead on his feet, utterly exhausted so that he fell asleep on a pew and later had to stumble back to the truck. But they didn’t lose anyone in that storm, though his mama said it’d been a close thing. They didn’t lose anyone, and Gene learned a hard lesson about  livin ’ in the bayou: sometimes, things got bad. Sometimes things got bad and all you could do was your best: you could pray and you could work and you had to hope that it was enough. During that storm, they didn’t lose anyone.

It was the first hurricane that Gene could remember, but it most certainly would not be the last.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just pre-teen Gene giving his mother some gray hairs :)

9 Years Old

“Eugene Roe, I swear I have told you a hundred times!” His mama scolded him from the door, her auburn brows pulled tight over her hazel eyes. “Put your shoes on if you’re going to be playing outside!”

Gene grinned at his mother as he trudged out of the swamp, mud caked over his feet and flecked up to his knees where he’d actually remembered to roll up his jeans. Bits of grass and slime squished between his toes and his heart beat joyfully. “It’s fine, mama,” he soothed, “ nothin’s gonna happen to me.”

“You say that until a cottonmouth gets its fangs in you! Or you step on a sharp root and skewer your foot!”

He tried to look solemn as he approached the porch where she stood glowering down at him, his hands folded behind his back, but he couldn’t help the lingering grin and the sense that his mama worried too much. “Okay, mama, I’ll wear shoes next time.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes at him. “Come on in, now. You’re late for lunch.” She ran a hand through his dark hair as he passed her by, the motion filling him with  _ warmth, love.  _

The next day, Gene left without his shoes again. 

* * *

His mama rolled her eyes but he caught the uptilt on her lips that meant she was holding back a smile. “Another one, Gene?”

He clutched the field mouse to his chest; the tiny creature trembled in his hands and its heart beat too quickly. Gene allowed his fingers to brush against its fur soothingly. “Broke a leg.”

“And what is this one?”

Gene glanced down at his clasped hands. “Mouse.”

“Oh, Leonie, leave him alone,” Gene’s  mémé called from the other room, “at least he brings them  _ home  _ now instead of tending to them in the bayou.”

Gene grinned bashfully, remembering the times he’d passed out in the mud after a healing. His mama might not like all the creatures he brought home, but he knew she preferred it this way.

She rolled her eyes again at  mémé’s observation. She pointed her finger at him. “Make sure it goes back where it belongs after it’s healed, Gene. I don’t want any mice in this house.”

The little creature shivered between Gene’s hands and Gene nodded to his mother. “’Course, mama.” He promised. Then he headed toward his room and the peace and quiet he knew he’d find there. A little cage sat on the floor next to his desk, the temporary hospital for all of his patients. He folded himself onto the floor and murmured soothing sounds at the mouse before he closed his eyes and began to pray. As he said the words, he  _ felt  _ his energy wind its way through the mouse:  _ tiny, quivering limbs, rapid-heartbeat, pant, pant, pant.  _ Eventually he discovered:  _ pain, fear, PAIN, FEAR,  _ and he settled there, let his mind and his hands and his healing settle on the tiny little leg. He felt the bone begin to knit itself back together, felt the swelling recede and the pain lessen, felt a bruised blood vessel mend itself and he could practically  _ see it.  _ Even though he didn’t know the name of every part or all of their functions, he knew what healing felt like. After, Gene swayed a bit from side to side then carefully set the mouse in the cage with some water before he managed to crawl up in his bed and tuck himself in before the darkness took him.

Two days later it was a garden snake. He didn’t tell his mama about that one. 


	9. Chapter 9

10 Years Old

“Renee,” Gene asked one day while he sat at the end of the dock, knee pulled up to his chin, fishing rod perched against the other. “Will you tell me what happened to you?”

Renee, who had taken to joining Gene on his fishing expeditions, turned her pale, water-blue eyes his way but he did not meet them. “Why do you ask?”

Gene shrugged and fiddled with the fishing line. In the water, tiny ripples formed. “I. ..know ...what you are.” 

“Do you?” She asked. The question sent a chill down his spine, but her voice was just as soft and melodic as always, soothing to his nerves.

He nodded.

“It does not matter anymore.” Renee sighed, and she swished her feet through the water, though they made no ripples of their own.

“Was it...bad?” He asked. 

No answer.

“It was bad, wasn’t it?” Now he did turn to look at her, wanted to see the truth on her face.

When she turned to look at him, her eyes were sad and her whole face seemed to have crumpled slightly. Her chin wobbled almost imperceptibly and Gene caught the glint of tears in her eyes before she shook her head, and murmured, “Eugene....” 

Then she was gone, and Gene was left alone on the dock and he didn’t feel like fishing anymore.

* * *

“ Mémé ,” Gene asked, seating himself at the table with his grandmother. She was peeling potatoes so he picked up a knife and began to help her with it. “What do you know about spirits?”

His grandmother cast him a shrewd look over her glasses but continued to peel her potato. “I know some things but there are a great many things that I don’t know.”  _ Peel, peel, peel. _ “Is this about your friend, Renee, or perhaps someone else that you’ve seen?”

Gene shivered. He hadn’t seen any other spirits besides Renee—at least, he didn’t think he had. But sometimes he wondered, himself, whether he walked amongst more ghosts than he realized. After all, she looked real enough to him. Mightn’t the others, as well?

Caught out by his grandmother, Gene shrugged.

She sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“You said you saw her when you were a little girl. You said she was very old.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you know what happened to her?”

His grandmother shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry,  chéri , I don’t.”  _ Peel, peel, peel. _ “Have you asked her?”

Gene nodded.

“And?”

“She wouldn’t tell me.”

His grandmother nodded her head like she’d already guessed as much. “I’m sure she has good reason for it. Maybe it’s painful for her to remember. Or maybe she’s forgotten.”

Gene frowned, thinking  _ he  _ wouldn’t forget how he’d died, if it was him. No, he thought it was because something bad had happened to her. Something terrible. He clenched his fists at the thought of someone hurting Renee: kind, smiling, sweet Renee. His best friend.  _ How could they?! How DARE they?!  _

“Sweetheart,”  mémé said, laying a hand on his arm. The feel of her warm, thin fingers against his skin shook him out of his rage in time to realize that the light bulb overhead had nearly flickered out. Now, he looked up at it and it glowed back warmly. Shaken, he stared at his grandmother and she squeezed his arm just a little tighter. “It’s okay, m on  chéri . Everything is going to be okay.”

Gene gulped but nodded his head, choosing to believe her.


	10. Chapter 10

11 Years Old

Gene’s eyes flickered open in the dark of his bedroom. For a moment, he simply allowed himself to enjoy the warmth and comfort of his twin bed while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Two little eyes looked back at him from the cage near his desk; yesterday he’d healed a rabbit with a  torn-up ear that he’d found huddled in his  mémé’s garden. It was likely the rabbit had hurt himself trying to get out. Now he was doing better but Gene figured it should have another day to recover before it was let loose again.

Gene didn’t have to look at his bedside clock to know that it was just after six. He could feel the sunrise like a tugging on his bones. He always woke up just before the dawn nowadays. His mama said it was because he had so much energy. Gene didn’t think that was it, but he didn’t have a better explanation so he didn’t argue with her. Now, though, his nose caught the barest scent of coffee on the air and he allowed himself a soft smile as he crawled out of bed.

Gene shrugged a plaid overshirt on over his sleep t-shirt and boxer shorts and trudged, barefoot, out of his bedroom toward the kitchen. He found his grandmother already at the stove, cooking up some eggs and sausages. Gene shuffled around her but paused to give her a one-armed hug before he pulled a mug from the cupboard and began to fill it with coffee. He leaned against the counter and took a sip, smiling gratefully. “You want some help?” He asked his  mémé.

“No, thank you, chéri.” She cast him a sideways glance and laughed. “Don’t tell your mama I let you drink coffee. She still thinks you’re too young.”

Gene smirked. “Our secret, I promise.”

* * *

Out on the dock, Gene sat with his sketch-pad and began sketching the outline of a heron that he’d been studying for the last ten minutes. Its blue feathers contrasted beautifully with its yellow beak. Gene focused on sketching but made an effort to memorize the colors as well. Maybe he’d paint this one later if it turned out okay. His desk and wall were already covered in various drawings and paintings he’d done recently. Since the beginning of the school year, he’d become nearly obsessed with drawing the creatures that he found around his home. It was calming, soothing, something that he found himself needing increasingly as time went on. Oh, it wasn’t that his life had suddenly undergone some massive change, or even that he himself had changed that much, either. Rather, it was just that he seemed so much more  _ aware  _ of everything nowadays. Sometimes, if he’d had a particularly tough day at school, the lights might flicker at dinner time or he might accidentally shock himself when he went to turn on his bedroom light. It wasn’t a big thing, but it was something he’d noticed. And his family had noticed it, too. They never talked about it (just one more thing they didn’t really talk about—the list was getting rather impressive) but Gene knew that they paid attention.  So he did his best to settle himself down and drawing and painting always seemed to help.

“Can I see?” Renee asked, from a couple feet away. Gene had sensed her appearance a few moments ago but had decided not to comment. They, too, had things they didn’t talk about.

Gene shrugged a shoulder but kept sketching. Renee seemed to take it as agreement because she drew close enough that she could look at it over his shoulder. “It’s beautiful, Gene.” She hummed to herself for a few moments while he worked and then “You’re becoming very good at this.”

Now, Gene flicked a glance at her. “Thanks.”

“I’ve found some rose mallow for your grandmother. If you want, I could show you where it is.”

Gene nodded. “Thanks. She’ll appreciate it.”

Renee moved around to settle at the periphery of his vision—not blocking the heron, but still where he could see her. She watched him in silence for a long time and Gene let her. Finally, though, she said “Are you alright?”

Still focusing on the detailing of the wing feathers he was working on, Gene said “My friend Terry moved away today. His dad got a new job in Alabama.”

The air around Renee changed and Gene could feel her sympathy like a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Gene nodded and finally looked up at her. “He was my only friend at school.” Renee did him the courtesy not to contradict him or ask if he was  sure he didn’t have any others. Gene hated it when adults did that—when they acted like a kid didn’t know what they were talking about, just because they were young. And Gene was sure about this. Terry had been his only friend at school. Terry was the reason that Gene was invited to play soccer or sit with the others at lunch time. Terry was one of the only kids that didn’t whisper about Gene or his family sometimes, that didn’t call them witches or insinuate worse things. 

“Can I say something?”

Gene’s shoulders tensed, but he nodded.

“I know it hurts right now, and you probably feel alone, but it won’t always be like this. You will have more friends.”

“You don’t know that,” Gene grumbled, meeting her eyes finally.

“Listen to me, Eugene.” Renee said, and suddenly she was much closer. She laid a hand on his and hers pulsed brighter, sharper. For a moment Gene swore he could feel her. “Someday you will have so many people who love you. I promise.”

Gene’s throat worked with the tears that he forcefully held back but he nodded, hoping to God that she was right, hoping to God that it didn’t always hurt this much. Like so many other things she said, he chose to believe it. “Thanks, Renee.”

Her hand slid away from his. “Of course.” 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments are love. Please let me know what you thought and feel free to come say hi on tumblr. I'm @realhunterswearplaid.


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